Oath of Office

“Very well.” Ryan stood and shrugged on his suit jacket. “I’ll be right behind you.”

“Mr. President,” Foley said, hanging back as the others filed out toward the Situation Room. “Would it be possible to have a momentary word?”

Ryan smiled. “We’ve been friends long enough for me to recognize an intervention when I see one. You don’t want me to go in there and bomb the hell out of Cameroon because Njaya’s a smarmy piece of shit.”

“The thought had occurred to me, Jack,” Foley said. “And honestly, none of us would blame you. Though that wouldn’t make it the right thing to do.”

Ryan stifled a chuckle. “My old man always said that handling anger was like climbing stairs. Everyone gets winded, no matter how good a shape you’re in. It’s how fast you recuperate that matters. I might get hot, but I won’t boil over.” His eyes narrowed. “I promise you, if I use force against François Njaya and his military, it will be overwhelmingly violent… but completely dispassionate.” He waved her toward the door. “Now go keep the Hostage Response Group in line until I get there. I’ll be there in a minute.”

* * *

Alone, Ryan turned to look past his own reflection in the center window behind his desk and onto the South Lawn. He shied away from the spot when anyone else was in the Oval, particularly the White House photographer. The whole look was too derivative of JFK, but it was a good thinking spot, damn it.

Apart from the comparison of climbing stairs to getting angry, Ryan’s father had always encouraged him to take a hard look at what he was angry at and admit to himself that it was most usually himself. The plain truth was that Njaya, for all his gloating, was right. Ryan was in a bad spot. The influenza, the flooding with attendant public health issues in the southeast, this business with Michelle Chadwick, and now an embassy under siege, all added to an already full threat board. The United States had many enemies that would love nothing more than to sit and watch her torn apart — and then swoop in to pick up the pieces…

“One thing at a time, Jack,” Ryan said to his reflection. He had capable hands working on the influenza epidemic and the flooding. Secretary Dehart was on his way to Louisiana to provide a firsthand report. That left Cameroon — with a diplomatic security agent literally hiding in the weeds, and two MQ-9 Reaper drones hovering over station.

“Unmanned aerial vehicles,” Ryan said. Low and slow, but they did the job.

Some argued that UAVs sanitized war… made it too easy for politicians. If they saved American lives, then Ryan had no problem with them. Ordering Americans into harm’s way could never be sanitized. Every bomb dropped, every trigger pulled, did damage, on both ends of the weapon. Ordering multiple deaths, or even one, should never be an easy thing. Some people needed to die, but Ryan was not a man to drag it out. Jack Ryan was no shrinking violet; he’d rather be done with it — whatever it was.

* * *

Adin Carr crouched behind the rusted box of an old semitrailer beside the man he should have been protecting. Together, they watched a squad of four soldiers, armed with French FAMAS rifles, escort Mrs. Porter into a dilapidated warehouse on the western edge of the city. They’d put a cloth bag over her head and tied her hands behind her back for the move. The apparent leader of the group, a man with a bald spot that looked like an appealing target, gave her a shove that sent her to her knees. Carr had to grab Ambassador Burlingame to keep him from rushing into the open.

“Patience, sir,” the DS agent whispered.

“I thought you said you wanted to act,” Burlingame said. “So let’s act.”

“We will, sir,” Carr said. “But we have to be smart about it. These guys outgun and outnumber us. Good chance we get Mrs. Porter killed if we go in without a plan and some backup. As much as I’d like to go in with guns blazing, we need to call in and let Ops know where she is so they can send the cavalry.”

“Who do you think?” Burlingame asked, eyes locked on the warehouse. “FBI Hostage Rescue, Navy SEALs?”

“You know that old story about FBI HRT being formed?”

Burlingame shook his head.

“The FBI director watched a demonstration of Delta, saw all their gear, and noticed they didn’t carry any handcuffs. When he asked why, one of the Delta guys said, ‘We put two rounds in their forehead. We don’t need handcuffs.’ The FBI went on to create the Hostage Rescue Team, but they carry handcuffs.”

“In that case,” Burlingame said, watching the guy with the bald spot yank Mrs. Porter to her feet, “I’d just as soon they send Delta.”

25

Erik Dovzhenko’s windshield wipers had no intermittent setting. They simply worked when they felt like it, wiping away enough rain now and then that he could mostly see to drive.